All went merrily. Fitzstephen grasped the helm, his soul proud with the
thought that, as his father had borne the Conqueror to England's
strand, he was bearing the pride of younger England, the heir to the
throne. On the deck before him his passengers were gathered in merry
groups, singing, laughing, chatting, the ladies in their rich-lined
mantles, the gentlemen in their bravest attire; while to the sound of
song and merry talk the well-timed fall of the oars and swash of driven
waters made refrain.
They had reached the harbor's mouth. The open ocean lay before them. In
a few minutes more they would be sweeping over the Atlantic's broad
expanse. Suddenly there came a frightful crash; a shock that threw
numbers of the passengers headlong to the deck, and tore the oars from
the rowers' hands; a cry of terror that went up from three hundred
throats. It is said that some of the people in the far-off ships heard
that cry, faint, far, despairing, borne to them over miles of sea, and
asked themselves in wonder what it could portend.
It portended too much wine and too little heed. The vessel, carelessly
steered, had struck upon a rock, the _Catee-raze_, at the harbor's
mouth, with such, violence that a gaping wound was torn in her prow, and
the waters instantly began to rush in.
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